The Reality in the Dream
by Nora May French
Summary: Brennan has been having the same nightmare for going on two weeks now. She doesn't believe in premonitions, and yet something tells her that she needs to stop the events of this dream from coming true. If she doesn't, Sweets will die. (Brennan-centered) Not a death fic.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and am not making a profit, monetary or otherwise, through the online publication of this. A works cited section will follow.

**A/N:** This story was inspired by a scene in an episode of Law and Order: SVU – season 3 episode 6, "Redemption." In the scene, a serial rapist/murderer is dangling from a roof, and John Hawkins (a guest character) steps on the man's fingers, but Eliot Stabler talks him into not killing the man, and they both pull him up off the edge of the roof. This story will not be following that plot sequence, what I saw merely triggered the writing of this.

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The dream came to her the same as it had every night for the past two weeks. _Sweets' face a mask of sheer terror, mouth agape, the of tips of his fingers growing white as they gripped the edge of the building, slipping, slipping…and then the scream, echoing over the rooftops, except it never came from Sweets, but always from her. _

Bones woke with a start, sitting up straight in bed, panting, plagued by the memory of Sweets' hands scrabbling at nothing as he fell to his death, his mouth forever open in a soundless scream, the bones of his left arm protruding through his skin after he felt.

"Tempe? What is it?" Booth's voice sounded like it was coming from a tunnel.

Temperance reached out for him instinctively, clutching blindly for his arm, and breathing easier once she had hold of it.

This wasn't like her, and she didn't like how the dream made her feel – shaken, vulnerable, and afraid for Sweets. She didn't want the doctor to die, even though he'd devoted himself to a soft science.

When she had finally gotten her breathing under control, she answered, as much to reassure Booth as herself, "Just a dream. It was just a dream."

Booth wrapped his arms around her, drawing her back, flush against his chest. Kissing her temple, he ran his hand through her hair. "Wanna talk about it?"

Bones shook her head, and relaxed in Booth's arms. She couldn't put this into words, and she wasn't sure why. It didn't make sense. She should be able to tell Booth about her dream, but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out. Like when Sweets had plummeted several stories to his death, not making a sound.

She shivered, and wrapped her fingers around Booth's arm. It was comforting, the feel of him around her – warm and solid. She wondered who Sweets had to hold onto, when the nightmares came calling and wouldn't go away. It was a strange thought for her to be having, and she wasn't sure what she wanted to do about it.

"What's wrong?" Booth kissed her temple, the back of her neck, her collarbone.

"Nothing." She shook her head and frowned, burrowing further beneath the covers.

"Let's go back to sleep." Booth kissed the top of her head, and sank back against his pillow, taking Bones with him.

She nodded and closed her eyes. Hoping that the dream would not return, Bones snuggled against Booth's warmth, knowing that, if anyone could keep nightmares at bay, it would be him. He wasn't a knight in shining armor, but he was a damn good FBI agent, and he was hers.

She didn't know when sleep claimed her, but when she woke, it was to the scratchy feel of Booth's unshaven cheek against hers. It was a welcome feeling, as was the way his arms tightened around her when she shifted to get up.

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	2. When Reality and Dream Collide

**Disclaimer**: See initial chapter.

**A/N:** Please take the time to review; let's me know if I should share anymore with the rest of the world or not...thanks. :-)

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It was a busy day at the lab. Brennan didn't have a second to spare for thoughts that weren't related to the case at hand. There was no room in her day for her to dwell upon the recurring dream. Not that she would have thought about the dream had she had any time for extraneous thought.

Brennan enjoyed her work. She was good at it, and bones never lied or otherwise deceived anyone. There was little confusion in her line of work, but there was plenty of confusion in Dr. Sweets' line of work. Analyzing people made for tricky business, and Brennan didn't see how what he did could be considered a science, even though she did respect Dr. Sweets and what he did.

People lied, even to themselves, and using a pseudo-science to sift through what was truth and what wasn't seemed iffy at best. Nothing that Dr. Sweets did was a black and white certainty, there could be holes. But, with her line of work, there were no holes; the science was solid, and complete. There were no unstable variables to deal with.

Mid-afternoon, Brennan went to the FBI building to meet with Booth to discuss the case. She brought along something for lunch for Booth, Sweets and herself. She had no idea what had prompted her to purchase something for Sweets, but had an inkling that it might have something to do with the dream.

"Dr. Brennan, Agent Booth, just the two people I wanted to see." Sweets waved at them from the hallway. The smile on his face caused Brennan's stomach to twist, and she frowned as she was reminded of the dream.

Brennan shook her head, and plastered a smile on her face, hoping that it didn't look as fake as it felt. If anyone could see through the façade, it'd be Sweets.

Sweets' smile fell as he walked closer to them. "What's wrong, Dr. Brennan?"

"Nothing," Brennan said, and she tried to make her smile look more genuine.

Sweets frowned. "Right, well, if I could see the two of you in my office; I have something I need to run by the both of you."

"_Are_ you alright?" Booth murmured as they followed after Sweets.

Brennan nodded, but let her smile drop now that Sweets couldn't see her face. Something didn't feel right, and she didn't know why, or what it meant, or how or _if _the dream she'd been having factored into anything. She didn't believe in premonitions or 'feelings' or psychic abilities, but right now she had the funniest feeling in the pit of her stomach, and, as she followed after Sweets, the uneasiness only seemed to grow.

"Dr. Sweets, there you are," Andrew Hacker hailed.

To Brennan, he looked worried and out of breath, and her stomach lurched as an intense, irrational fear overtook her. Something was wrong, but, like in her dream, she wasn't afraid for herself or Booth, but for Sweets who'd turned mid-step at Hacker's summons. His face was open, and he didn't look the least bit afraid, just concerned over the tone of voice Hacker had used.

"There's a jumper on the roof," Hacker blurted out. He grasped Sweets' arm, and started pulling him in the opposite direction.

Brennan felt a shiver go down her spine, and then it was like everything around her slowed down. She could see particulates floating in the air as Sweets was being pulled along quickly behind the assistant director of the FBI, and yet to Brennan, it looked like everything was happening in slow motion – every facial expression magnified, every footfall exaggerated. It was eerie, and she didn't like it at all.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and she wanted to shout something, like she had in her dream, but no sound came out of her mouth. Maybe if she could warn Sweets, he wouldn't die. But, as powerless as she'd been during the dream, she was even more powerless now. It shouldn't be like this. She should be able to make words, warn Sweets in some way that he shouldn't go up to the roof.

"What's wrong, Bones?" Booth asked as they raced along behind Sweets and Hacker.

"You have to stop him," Brennan said, surprised that her tongue seemed to have become unglued. "You have to stop Sweets."

"What? Why?" Booth looked at her as though he thought she was crazy, but he was still willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. He cast a worried look in Sweets' direction and then at her. "What's wrong? Do you know something that Hacker doesn't?"

"No, it's…"

How could she say that this was about a dream? What would Booth think of her if she admitted her fear that a dream she'd been having for the past several weeks was unfolding in front of her eyes right now, and she was powerless to stop it? Would he think her crazy, or attribute some kind of psychic powers to her which had manifested after the birth of their child?

"What? What is it?" And now Booth was worried, the same as she was.

He could tell something was wrong, she could see it on his face – the way his brows furrowed and his lips turned downward in a frown. His eyes darted to where Sweets and Hacker were disappearing around a corner, and he quickened his pace.

"You have to stop him, Booth," Brennan said.

She couldn't seem to get her mouth to cooperate with her brain, and that scared her, almost as much as the thought of Sweets plummeting to an untimely death did.

"What's going to happen?" Booth asked.

He was in full combat mode now, no longer questioning the reasoning behind her directives, but asking for criteria which would help him do whatever it was that he needed to do. This was love, and that thought in and of itself struck Brennan as completely unrelated and odd to have at a time like this.

"He's going to die," Brennan said, "I saw it. Booth, you have to save him. You can't let Sweets die."

"Don't worry, Bones, I won't." Booth sprinted ahead of her, and she hurried to catch up.

Dread felt like a cold rock in the pit of her stomach. It made her shiver, and all she could see as she ran after her men was Sweets' face frozen in a rictus of terror, falling to his death, over and over again. It felt like the dream, and for one hope-filled moment, Brennan wondered if she _was_ dreaming. But the sound of the door leading to the roof being slammed open and then shutting jarred her, and she started running, not wanting to believe that it was really actually happening as she'd dreamt it.

When she made it to the roof, Sweets was approaching whoever the jumper was. Brennan couldn't see the man very clearly. In any case, she wasn't sure she would have recognized the man had she had a clearer view of him.

She did, however, see the gun he held in his hand. It was pointed directly at Sweets who kept walking slowly and steadily toward the would-be jumper. This was where dream differed from reality. There had been no gun in the dream, no Booth, no Hacker, just Sweets continuously falling to his death.

Hacker was standing at the door to the roof, and he grabbed her arm to hold her back as she attempted to go to Sweets. She fought against his hold, but he pulled her back, wrapping his arms around her, holding her against his back. He whispered an insistent, "Shh," in her ear when she opened her mouth to shout.

When she stopped struggling, he removed an arm from around her and pointed to where Booth was circling around Sweets and the deranged man. Booth had his gun pointed at the man Sweets had been fetched to talk down. Brennan knew that it wouldn't work, that this man would die, and that he would try to take Sweets with him. Knowing that didn't make her heart beat any less frantically.

"Who is he?" Brennan asked, keeping her voice pitched low so that she wouldn't interrupt whatever it was that Sweets was saying. In keeping with her dream, she couldn't hear his voice at all.

"Albert Goodman," Hacker said. His voice was shaky, and he finally let Brennan go. She took a step away from him, and kept her eyes on the three men. "He works in accounts. Apparently he caught his wife with another man, and learned that he has cancer, only six months left to live; all in the same day. I figured that if anyone could talk some sense into him it would be Dr. Sweets. He's good at that kind of thing."

"He's a man who feels that he's got nothing left to live for. In some cultures, what he's doing would be readily accepted. Suicide is not always seen as the coward's way out," Brennan explained.

Sometimes she wondered why others failed to see the different variables at work in the world around them, and she didn't understand why people tried to meddle in the lives of others without truly understanding them.

But, Dr. Sweets – Lance – Sweets – wasn't like that. He strived to understand what drove others to do what they did, and readily accepted different cultural norms and beliefs without outwardly judging them. It was just one of the many things she admired about the young man who'd, over the years that she'd known him, somehow managed to take up residence in a special place in her heart.

"None of this makes any sense," Brennan said the words aloud, hoping that they'd somehow break the terrible spell that had settled over the rooftop.

Booth's gun was trained on Mr. Goodman. Mr. Goodman's gun was pointed at Sweets. It was a standoff, and Brennan knew that it would all come down to who took the first shot. She hoped that it would be Booth, even though he didn't like to kill people. Surely he would shoot Mr. Goodman before he managed to coax Sweets onto the edge of the building, or shot the psychologist.

"Whoa, whoa, take it easy! Just put your gun down. No one needs to get hurt here."

It wasn't Sweets' voice that reached Brennan and Hacker, but Booth's, and he was sidestepping his way toward Mr. Goodman, holding his gun out to the side as though to look less threatening. Sweets had resumed his slow forward march toward the unstable man, and Brennan found herself wishing that he'd just stop and let the man kill himself. Mr. Goodman's life was not worth Sweets'. It was not an even trade.

Brennan wished that she could hear what Sweets was saying as he walked ever closer to the deranged man. More than anything, though, she wanted to toss a lasso over him or tackle him, anything to keep him from reaching the ledge that Mr. Goodman was standing on.

"You can't help me; no one can!" Mr. Goodman's voice was carried to them on the wind. "Just leave me the hell alone, and don't come any closer. I will shoot."

It sounded to Brennan like the man had been crying, but she felt no remorse for him. He should have seen the signs of his wife's infidelity well before he'd caught her in bed with another man, gone to the doctor sooner so that he'd at least have a chance to get treatment that might've saved his life, and he shouldn't have come into work waving a gun and threatening to kill himself.

Whatever Sweets was saying now, he was using his hands, and Brennan could imagine the look on his face. It would be one of compassion and understanding. It would be wasted on Mr. Goodman. The man wanted to die, and he would. Brennan could see that, anyone could.

"We've got to do something." Brennan turned toward Hacker.

The assistant director didn't even seem to hear her. His attention was focused on the drama unfolding in front of them. His hands were opening and closing in loose fists, and he was shifting from foot-to-foot, as though he wanted to rush forward and do something to stop the inevitable.

Brennan tugged on Hacker's sleeve, gaining his attention. "We should do something."

"What? He…oh my god." Hacker placed a hand over his mouth and lurched forward, pulling out of Brennan's grip.

She turned, and the world seemed to tilt as her vision tunneled. She wasn't even aware that she was moving until she was falling to her knees beside Sweets. The sound of the wind whipping around her drowned out that of the second gunshot, though she could hear a tiny popping sound, registered that Mr. Goodman's body fell backward, off the roof, that Booth was rushing toward the edge of the roof, looking over it – she could see and hear all of it, yet none of it. She hadn't even heard the first shot – the one that came from Mr. Goodman's gun and tore its way through Sweets' chest.

It happened all at once – so quickly, yet slowly. It was a dichotomous reality. One which Brennan would question later. She knew what was going to happen a split second before Mr. Goodman pulled the trigger, and she'd been powerless to do anything to stop it.

There was a small part of her which heard the gunshot in conjunction with the impact, but the sound didn't register. The crack of the shot didn't seem to reach her ears until she was kneeling on the rooftop beside Sweets, pressing her hand over a neat, round hole. There was very little blood, and she knew that it should mean something to her, but she couldn't seem to bring her thoughts into focus, just knew that it was important that she cover the wound.

It'd be better if she had something flat to press against it – like a driver's license. Not wanting to remove her hand from the wound, Brennan continued to apply pressure to it, as she fumbled to remove her Jeffersonian badge with her other hand. She quickly placed the badge against the wound, hoping that it would keep air from entering the wound, and yet allow air to exit.

The wound was in the upper right chest. And, judging by the lack of blood pooling onto the cement rooftop beneath Sweets, the bullet was still somewhere inside of the young psychologist. She hoped it wasn't lodged in his spine, but knew that hoping didn't necessarily make things a reality.

She'd watched Vincent Nigel-Murray die right in front of her when he'd been shot by a sniper in Booth's stead. There'd been so much blood pouring out of the chest wound. It had stained the lab floor. Though the janitors had managed to clean it up, she knew where Vincent Nigel-Murray's blood was spilled and knew that there were still traces of it that could be revealed with black light. It was nothing, and yet everything, like this.

Nigel-Murray had been talking, asking her not to send him home. Sweets' lips were moving, as they had been in the dream, but there was no sound coming from his mouth. The only thing Brennan heard was that of the wind whipping through her hair.

"Bones." Booth's voice startled her and she tore her eyes away from Sweets' face to look at him. He had a hand on her shoulder. It was warm. Grounding.

"You're doing good," he said, and he wiped at something on her face with the pad of his thumb. Tears. She wasn't even aware that they were falling, and until Booth wrapped an arm around her shoulders, she hadn't noticed that she was shaking.

"Just keep your hand right there. Paramedics are on their way. He'll be okay."

Booth placed his hand over hers, and gave her a tight smile. His eyes glistened with unshed tears as he turned his gaze toward Sweets.

"Shh…" Booth was speaking to Sweets whose lips were still moving soundlessly, and the psychologist stopped trying to talk. Instead, he sought out Booth's eyes with his own, as though trying to communicate to the agent through them.

Brennan could see fear and panic reflected in Sweets' eyes. She wanted to ease Sweets' pain and take away his fear, but she couldn't seem to get her mouth to cooperate with her brain.

Sweets opened his mouth and closed it. When he opened it again, he licked his lips, and then spoke a single word which Brennan had to lean over his mouth to hear.

"Hurts."

"I know it hurts, but you're going to be okay," Brennan said with as much confidence as she could muster. "You didn't fall off the roof. You're going to be okay."

She brushed the hair off of his forehead, and pressed her lips to it as she would have done to Christine had Christine scraped her knee, or gotten a 'boo-boo' as Booth called it. Kisses seemed to help stem the flow of tears for her daughter, and though Sweets wasn't crying, he was in pain. She knew it was foolish, that kisses didn't really make the pain go away, but there was little else she could do for Sweets.

"You're going to be okay, Sweets," she said, her heart lurching in her chest when Sweets blinked slowly, and his breathing started to falter.


	3. Blood

**Disclaimer:** See initial chapter.

**A/N:** Re-post.

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In spite of the relatively small amount of blood that had come from Sweets' wound, the palm of Brennan's hand was coated with the psychologist's blood. It had gotten into the cracks of her palm, and dried there. She found it difficult to wash the blood off of her hand, and scrubbed at it until her hand was red with the effort of ridding it of her friend's blood.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Her cheeks were tear stained. She hadn't thought that she'd cried that much. There were dark circles beneath her eyes; she knew that they were more than likely the result of sleep interrupted by nightmares about Sweets dying in front of her. There was a smudge of blood on her cheek, and she wondered how it had gotten there. Her shirt also had a trace of Sweets' blood on it, and she couldn't seem to stop the sob that built up inside of her and tore its way out of her throat.

Sweets had lost consciousness a minute before the paramedics had arrived and whisked him out of her arms and to the hospital quicker than she could follow. She hadn't wanted to let him go, but Booth held her back, whispering comforting words that she couldn't even understand. It was the tone of his words which had finally gotten through to her more than the words themselves.

A knock on the bathroom door jarred her from her memories and she called out, "I'm almost done."

It was one of those private hospital bathrooms that doctors sent patients to when they wanted a urine sample. Brennan read the sign above the sink which detailed how a woman should clean herself with two wipes before peeing into the cup, and a man with just one. She wished that she had some wipes to rid herself of Sweets' blood.

"Bones?" The worry in Booth's voice was clear, even though the thick door that separated her from him. "You okay?"

"Yes," she answered, and then cleared her throat when Booth knocked again. "Yes, I'm almost done. I'll be out in a minute."

She met the reflection of her eyes in the mirror and willed her heart to stop its out-of-control hammering.

"Get a grip," she ordered herself. "It's just a little blood. Sweets didn't fall off that roof. Your dream didn't come true. He'll be fine. Booth said he would."

She ignored the shimmer of tears in her eyes, and squared her jaw. She turned the hot water on and attacked the spot of dried blood on her cheek. It was easier to remove than the blood on her palm. The blood on her shirt was not as easy to eradicate, but she scrubbed at it with her nails and a couple of paper towels.

Another knock sounded on the door, and Brennan jumped. She'd somehow only succeeded in making the blood stain run – turning the red spot into a larger, pink blotch on her white blouse.

"Just a minute," she called, her voice catching on the last syllable.

"Honey, it's me," Angela said. "Let me in?"

Brennan took a shaky breath and shut the water off. She unlocked the door, and Angela burst into the room, wrapping her in a hug and squeezing so tightly that Brennan found it difficult to breathe. She released her hold on Brennan and then shut the door behind them, locking it.

It wasn't until Brennan found herself sitting on the edge of the toilet that she realized her best friend had bag in her hand and was pulling out a tee-shirt. Angela tossed it to her, and helped her ease out of her ruined blouse.

"I know that it's not what you typically wear, but I was in a rush, and I just grabbed what I had on hand," Angela said apologetically.

"That's okay, Angela," Brennan said, eyeing the colorful, tie-dyed tee-shirt dubiously, wondering if it would fit her. "Thank you."

Her throat felt tight, like she was choking, and she couldn't seem to figure out how to put the tee-shirt on. It was a strange, out-of-body feeling, and Brennan wanted it to stop. Sweets wasn't dead. He hadn't fallen to his death. It had been Mr. Goodman who had fallen off of the top of the FBI building, after Booth shot him for shooting Sweets.

Sweets was alive. Mr. Goodman was dead. Her dream hadn't come true. It had been a horrible, terrible lie that had kept her awake for far too long.

She lifted the tee-shirt in her hands, and marveled that they were shaking. She was a woman of science and cold, hard facts. She wasn't prone to normal, human reactions like shock.

Angela took the tee-shirt from her, and, just like Brennan imagined she'd done countless times for her son, Michael, she coaxed Brennan into raising her arms up, over her head and then tugged the tee-shirt on over her head. Brennan felt like laughing, but what came out of her mouth was something halfway between a laugh and a sob.

Angela wrapped her in another hug. Brennan allowed herself to cry, knowing that the emotional release that came along with the expelling of tears would help her to think clearly once she was finished.

It was based on scientific fact. Tears, when linked to heavy emotions, contain protein-based hormones which are produced by the body when it's under stress. Crying was simply the body's way of releasing those chemicals.

When she'd finished crying, she wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, and Angela released her after holding her for a few seconds longer.

"Thank you," Brennan murmured.

Angela gave her a watery smile. "You'd do the same for me."

"How is he?" Brennan had no idea how long she'd been in the bathroom, trying to wash away the remnants of Sweets' blood, but she had a feeling that it had been much longer than the few minutes she'd promised Booth.

Angela sniffed, and looked away. "The doctors haven't said anything yet, but Booth said that you acted quickly, and that Sweets has a very good chance of surviving. I just can't believe what happened. I mean, of all of the things that could have happened today, this was not a scenario that I had envisioned. Booth said that you'd tried to warn him? That you seemed to know something bad was going to happen. How did you know?"

Brennan closed her eyes and shook her head, internally debating whether or not to tell Angela about the dream. In the end, it was the plaintive look on her best friend's face which compelled her to tell Angela about the dream. It came spilling out of her in a torrent of words – the guilt that she felt for not telling Sweets about her dream a week ago; watching Sweets die night after night and waking with a scream dying in her throat; being unable to tell Booth about it; thinking she was going crazy; and hoping that she didn't sound like some crackpot psychic.

"Oh, honey," Angela said, gathering her into a hug once more, "none of this is your fault. You couldn't have known that your dream would come true."

"But, it didn't come true," Brennan said, pulling back. "Sweets was shot. He didn't fall."

"Maybe that's because you intervened," Angela hazarded. "Sweets would have died if you hadn't been there."

Brennan frowned. There were no facts to consider in this situation. Her recurring dreams were not based on facts, nor were her feelings that something was 'off.' Everything about this was speculation. Brennan didn't do well with pure speculation. She needed facts to sift through to determine the truth of what had happened.

"Maybe if I hadn't intervened, he wouldn't have been shot. Maybe Sweets would have been able to talk Mr. Goodman off the roof if Booth and I hadn't followed them. He's really very good at what he does. Maybe none of this would have happened if I hadn't let some stupid dream get the better of me."

Angela pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. She gave Brennan a thoughtful look – one that the forensic anthropologist was very familiar with – and crossed her arms over her chest.

"What do you think Dr. Sweets would say about this?"

Brennan closed her eyes and rubbed them. She was tired and her head was starting to ache, and she was sitting on a toilet seat in a hospital, feeling foolish. She turned Angela's question over in her mind, trying to understand it.

Brennan opened her eyes and glared at Angela. "How could I possibly know what Dr. Sweets would have to say about all of this? He's being operated on to have a bullet removed from his spine. I doubt that he'd have much to say about any of this."

Angela took a deep breath, and let it out, as she often did when striving to be patient with her. Brennan was familiar with this, and hated it because she had no idea what she'd done wrong – what she'd failed to understand.

"Sweetie," Angela said, and then she paused, and she tucked a stray hair behind Brennan's ear. "I know that this is hard, and that, in a small way, you blame yourself."

She held up a hand when Brennan opened her mouth to protest the accusation, and Brennan closed her mouth.

"What I think Dr. Sweets would say is that something triggered your intuition. What one might term as a sixth sense, something that you might not be able to put your finger on, but which you pick up on without realizing that you do. You know, like how the hair on the back of your neck stands up when you walk past a dark alley, but you don't know why until hours later you hear in the news about someone being attacked by a mugger lurking in that alley," Angela said.

"I don't think that's what Dr. Sweets would say," Brennan interrupted before Angela could add anymore to her outlandish story. "He'd tell me that this was not my fault, and he'd ask me to explain the dream in detail. He'd nod and frown and insert a comment, or ask a question whenever I came to a natural pause. He'd try to help me understand my psyche. He wouldn't talk to me about a sixth sense or intuition, because he knows that I'd scoff at it."

Angela smiled, and raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like you know him very well, and like he knows you. "

"Yeah, Booth too. Ang, he can't die." Brennan felt tears burning her eyes again, but she didn't want to cry anymore, because her tears couldn't fix anything. They couldn't help Sweets make it through surgery. They couldn't save the psychologist's life, or make it so that he wouldn't be paralyzed.

"I know, honey. How about if we get out of this bathroom, and sit with the others." Angela held out a hand to her and pulled her up.

They both laughed when she stumbled and almost fell into the toilet. Angela bundled up Brennan's blouse and placed it in her bag, and then, arm-in-arm, they walked out of the bathroom.

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Please take the time to review, and let me know if you would like more of this or not, so I know whether I should scrap this or continue to post. Thanks


	4. Bedside Manner

**Disclaimer**: See initial chapter.

**A/N**: Guest, thanks for the review; to be honest, lack of feedback for this story has me thinking that it's just not good enough to continue posting.

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Brennan didn't like sitting still with nothing to do. She twisted her hands in her lap, seeing Sweets' blood on the palms, even though she'd cleaned them multiple times. It wasn't rational to see blood where there wasn't any.

She wished that she was at the lab, working the case she'd left behind when she'd visited Booth for lunch. There was something comforting about holding a skull or a bone in her hands– the weight was tangible and practical. Empty hands, while she didn't believe the adage that they were the devil's plaything, made her very uncomfortable.

Sitting in a hospital, waiting for a doctor to walk in and tell her whether a friend she cared about was going to live or die, wasn't something that she did well. She needed to be the one finding the answers, not waiting for them.

Booth reached over and took one of her hands, and squeezed. "He's going to be okay, Bones. He's young and strong. He'll be fine."

"You can't know that," Brennan said. "He was shot from not even four feet away. The bullet lodged into his spine between the third and fourth lumbar vertebrae. Even if he survives surgery, he could end up partially paralyzed."

"He's going to be fine," Booth said, and he squeezed her hand. "He'll survive, and he'll be fine."

"Is that your faith talking?" Brennan asked, searching his face for answers she knew that Booth couldn't possibly have. Answers she wouldn't have believed, even if they had been manifested on her partner's face.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and took a breath. "Yeah," he said, and then looked at their entwined hands. "No. I don't know, Bones. All I know is that Sweets doesn't deserve to die, and he sure as hell doesn't deserve to be paralyzed."

"I know." Brennan squeezed Booth's hand, getting as much comfort from the weight of his hand in hers as he appeared to be getting from her. "I can't just divorce the reality of Sweets' situation from my mind, and, I can't stop seeing him fall after he was shot."

Though it had been a relatively short fall compared to the one Sweets had taken in her dream, it had seemed to last forever. Without adrenaline running through her system, she'd had time to replay the event in her mind. It wasn't any less horrific with the absence of the thought-altering chemicals. She didn't understand why she couldn't separate the facts of what had happened to Sweets from the emotions associated with it.

Brennan wasn't used to not being able to separate fact from emotion. She was good at compartmentalizing. Even Sweets had said it, and he was an expert on such things.

Not that she gave much credence to psychology, but Sweets and others did. Regardless of her own feelings on the subject, psychology was a much respected field of study. She had a feeling that, if Sweets did survive surgery, he'd need whatever help psychology had to offer him. That maybe he'd be able to find solace in it.

A surgeon stepped into the waiting room. He was dressed in green scrubs that looked like they'd been slept in, but Brennan knew that he'd probably just hastily changed out the scrubs he'd worn during surgery because they were probably covered in blood. She looked at her hands, and smiled when Booth squeezed the hand she'd held over Sweets' wound.

"Family of Lance Sweets?" The surgeon looked tired and wary, like he wanted to be somewhere else, and his voice was subdued. All outward signs that he had bad news to tell them.

"Dr. Sweets," Brennan spoke up, correcting the surgeon. She stood, and Booth stood with her. "He hasn't got any family. He's an orphan."

"What Dr. Brennan means," Cam spoke up, and Brennan wondered when the pathologist had arrived, and how she'd missed it, "is that we are all the family that Dr. Sweets has."

The surgeon frowned and took a deep breath. Expelling it, he gave them a grave smile, and gestured for everyone to sit down. Brennan hadn't realized that Hodgins, Ang, Cam, Hacker, Arastoo, Finn, Michelle, and even Caroline had come, and all of them had risen when she and Booth had. She was usually more aware of her surroundings than that, and she felt shaken by her lack of awareness.

"Please, take a seat," the surgeon said, suiting his words to action by taking a seat on the magazine table in front of them.

Reluctantly, Brennan sat.

The surgeon slapped a folder against his knee, and opened it. "Which of you is Agent Seely Booth?"

"I am," Booth said, leaning forward.

The surgeon leaned closer to Booth. "Dr. Sweets has your name listed on his advance directive as someone we can release medical information to, he's named you and Dr. Temperance Brennan as legal surrogates."

Booth stiffened, and frowned, and he looked at Brennan. She hadn't known about this either, and wondered why Sweets hadn't said anything to either of them.

"Do you know when he did this?" Booth asked.

The surgeon sighed and looked at the paper. "Looks like it was done fairly recently, within the past month. I'm sure that he meant to speak with the both of you about it before all of this happened."

"I drew up the paperwork for him," Caroline said. "Told that boy he should've talked with the two of you about it first." If Brennan wasn't mistaken, the prosecutor sounded sad, not angry as her words would have implied.

"Is he…" Booth trailed off, and Brennan steeled herself to hear the worst.

"He made it through surgery okay, but," the surgeon paused, "the bullet caused some major damage to his spinal cord."

"So, what are you saying, doc?" Booth's voice was aggressive, and Brennan's heart felt like it was stuck in her throat. It was an odd sensation, one she'd only ever felt once before.

The surgeon looked at each of them in turn, and then cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, but it looks like Dr. Sweets will be paralyzed from the waist down. The damage to his spinal cord was irreversible. We'll know more about the extent of the damage once some of the swelling goes down."

"How can you be so certain?" Booth asked.

"The bullet entered in through his chest, but lodged itself in between the third and fourth lumbar vertebrae, shattering them, causing damage to the spinal cord," the surgeon spoke in a curt, yet compassionate tone. Brennan supposed that Sweets would say that he had a good bedside manner, but she found no comfort in it.

"So, you're saying what? That this is irreversible?" Booth pulled his hand from hers, and ran it through his hair.

The surgeon nodded. "Right now, we have him sedated. Miraculously, there was very little internal damage. The bullet nicked his liver and spleen, but those were easy to repair. Given the bullet's trajectory, he was really a very lucky young man."

"You'll have to excuse me if I don't shout, hallelujah, doc," Booth said, and he clenched his hands into fists.

Brennan placed a hand on his arm, hoping that he wouldn't haul off and hit the doctor, even though there was a small part of her that wished he would. She wanted to hit him herself, even though she knew that he was just telling them the truth.

"I understand that what I've told you has come as a shock," the surgeon said carefully, "but, once the swelling is down, we will know more about how much motility Dr. Sweets will have in his lower extremities, and we'll be able to take the next steps from there."

"No pun intended, huh, doc?" Hodgins said angrily.

The surgeon seemed to blanch at the etymologist's words, and Brennan wondered why, and what he'd said that had upset Hodgins. She looked to Booth, and he seemed angrier than he had a moment ago.

"Look, I understand that this is hard…"

"You don't understand the half of it, chéri," Caroline cut him off, and she stood. "You gonna take us to him now, or continue to tell us what you don't know?"

"I'll have someone come and get you when he's settled in a room and is ready to receive visitors," the surgeon said, and then he stood and left without a backward glance.

"What?" Caroline asked. "I don't know about you, but that man was getting on my nerves. I won't trust anything he's said until I can see Dr. Sweets for myself."

"Me either," Brennan agreed, reassessing her earlier appraisal that the doctor had a good bedside manner. His bedside manner still needed a lot of work yet.

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Again, reviews really do encourage me as a writer. Thanks


	5. Hard Pill to Swallow

**Disclaimer:** See initial chapter.

**A/N:** I hope that this comes out alright.

butterfly 2000, thank you so much for your wonderful review, for some reason I'm unable to reply to it in the normal fashion - with a PM. It was greatly appreciated, and I'm glad that you like it, and the possibilities that this situation presents. I hope you will continue to enjoy.

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Booth was sitting in the chair next to Sweets' hospital bed. His hand was resting on the mattress beside Sweets', not quite touching, but close enough so that all he had to do was extend his fingers.

To Brennan's trained eye, Booth looked tired. No, she amended, he looked exhausted. He hadn't slept well for the past two weeks, but then again, neither of them had been sleeping very well since Sweets had been shot.

Brennan knew that the agent blamed himself for what had happened to Sweets, even though she'd told him about the dream she'd had, and shared her own fears that, if she'd have acted sooner, Sweets wouldn't have been hurt at all. Booth had assured her that it wasn't her fault, but it hadn't made her feel any less guilty.

She turned from watching Booth and the still sleeping Sweets to look out the window. It was a beautiful, clear autumn day. The leaves on the trees were starting to change colors – the tree nearest Sweets' window, a maple, had a nice array of leaves changing from green to orange.

Sweets hadn't been alert for more than an hour or so at a time. The doctors said it was normal, but nothing about Sweets' situation seemed normal to her. No one had told him about the injury to his spine yet, citing that they wouldn't know anything for sure until he was more alert. She knew they were really just stalling the inevitable, though she didn't know why.

"Dr. Brennan?" Sweets pulled her from her reverie, and she forced a smile on her face before she turned toward him.

"Hey," she said. "How are you feeling?"

Sweets gave her a lopsided smile. "I'm feeling pretty good. You know, you and Booth don't have to stay with me. I mean, it's really nice and all, but…"

"Relax, kid, we aren't going anywhere." Booth exchanged a look with Brennan.

"I don't think I'm going to be going anywhere for a while yet," Sweets said with a chuckle; it made Brennan's heart clench. "You two should really go home and get some real rest."

"We're fine, aren't we, Bones?" Booth looked at her, and she knew that he too was thinking about the irony of Sweets' words.

She could tell that it hurt Booth not to tell Sweets that he was paralyzed. The doctors had said to wait, and so they'd waited. Brennan wasn't sure they should wait that much longer. While Sweets would still maintain function of his bladder and bowels, but he would be unable to walk. Even though it was a good prognosis, Brennan knew that it would not be an easy one for Sweets to accept.

"I'm sure that you've got a case or some work to do," Sweets said around a yawn.

"We do," Brennan said, but she neglected to mention that the case they were currently working on was directly related to what had led Mr. Goodman to shoot Sweets and then take his own life. There had been more to the man's story than Hacker had known, and more skeletons in the dead man's closet than clothing.

"Look, I…" Sweets was looking at the foot of the bed, playing with the edge of his sheet with the hand that Booth hadn't grasped. "Thank you for staying with me, but I'm a grown man, and I can barely stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time. Go home, sleep. Come visit me during normal visiting hours."

"It's nothing pressing," Booth said. "Nothing that can't wait."

"Something's wrong, isn't it?" Sweets asked. His voice was small, vulnerable. He looked from Booth to Brennan, and then back to the foot of the bed. "I think, maybe, if I could stay awake long enough, someone would tell me something."

"The doctors don't think we should say anything to you yet," Brennan said, and she instantly regretted it.

Booth looked stricken, and he rubbed a hand over his face. "Bones."

Sweets gripped the sheet in his hand, and pulled at it, exposing his feet. "I'm paralyzed, aren't I?"

Brennan watched as Booth squeezed Sweets' hand. He was good at that – comforting people. Brennan wanted to walk over to Sweets and hold his hand, or hug him, or something, but she felt rooted to the spot. Unable to move, she watched as a host of emotions crossed Sweets' face, and her heart ached for him. She neither confirmed nor denied his question.

When he looked up from his feet, there were tears in his eyes, but he bit his bottom lip and nodded. Taking a deep breath, he turned to look at them and said, "I'd like to be alone now."

"Sweets…" Booth gave Brennan a look that she found difficult to interpret. It looked pained, and desperate, and Brennan had no idea what to say or do to help him or Sweets.

"Please leave." Sweets' voice cracked, and he pulled his hand out of Booth's. "I'd really like to be alone now."

"Sweets," Booth tried again, "we can help you through this."

"Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan, thank you, but I'd like to be alone now." Sweets wasn't looking at either of them, but at his hands where they were bunched up in the sheets. He was shaking, and there were tears in his eyes.

Brennan's body felt like it moved of its own accord. She was standing beside Sweets' hospital bed, her hand on his shoulder, before it fully registered to her what she was doing. She leaned down, and, taking care not to get tangled in the IV lines and various leads, she wrapped her arms around him. It was awkward at first. She didn't dole out hugs often, though Christine and Booth were an exception to that unspoken rule.

"It's going to be okay," Brennan said, and she hugged him as tightly as she dared.

She didn't want to cause him anymore pain than she already had. The wound in his chest, though stitched up, was still very tender, and she knew that his back would more than likely be sore as well.

The tears took her by surprise. Sweets' as much as hers. Neither of them was given to this type of display of heightened emotion. They were both typically reserved, but this was not a typical situation, and Brennan found that she didn't mind having Sweets crying on her shoulder.

Though she knew that her words must sound as hollow to Sweets as they did to her, she kept repeating to him that it would be okay. A small part of her hoped that, maybe, if she repeated the words enough times, things really would be okay, and that she'd wake up to find that this had all just been part of her dream.

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Please do me the honor of leaving a review - thank you.


	6. Confessions

**Disclaimer:** See initial chapter.

**A/N:**Thanks to all those who've reviewed, and especially those I'm unable to reply to individually.

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"I hear that I have you to thank for saving my life," Sweets said without looking at her. His words were spoken tonelessly. His face was turned away, toward the window, as it had been all that week. It seemed to Brennan as though he was trying to shut everyone out.

The psychological term for that would be dissociation, but Brennan doubted that Sweets appreciate her sharing that insight with him right now. He had dark circles under his eyes; she knew he hadn't been sleeping well, even though he claimed that all he did was sleep. Worse yet, was that his eyes were hollow, and lacked their usual luster and youthful innocence.

Sweets was much too pale, and the doctors were concerned about his lack of appetite, as well as his growing apathy. He was not himself, and refused to talk with the hospital psychologist.

Brennan moved around to the other side of the bed, where she knew that, unless he made a concerted effort to turn away, he'd have to look at her. She placed a hand on the psychologist's arm when he attempted to turn away from her.

"While it is true that I performed a field medical procedure which more than likely helped keep air from entering your wound, I can hardly lay claim to saving your life…"

"Thank you, Dr. Brennan," Sweets cut her off before she could go any further in her explanation of how his life had been saved. His voice was void of emotion, his composure tense, yet, to Brennan, he looked even more fragile than when he'd broken down in her arms.

It had been two weeks since Sweets had learned of his paraplegia, and he'd been despondent, not wanting to see anyone. Not that it had stopped Booth, or her, from visiting him. They were, as per his paperwork, his medical proxies, and they had every right to check up on him. His doctors did not believe he was in the right frame of mind to be making medical decisions.

"You have nothing to thank me for," Brennan said, believing it.

She still had not been able to shake the irrational guilt she felt for what had happened to Sweets. Intellectually, she knew that she wasn't responsible, that the recurring dreams she'd been having prior to Mr. Goodman's devolvement were not responsible for Sweets' paralysis.

"You know," Sweets said, after a pause. He looked up at Brennan, and she could see raw vulnerability in his eyes.

"I've been wrestling with the thought that it would have been better had Mr. Goodman killed me, or if…" he chuckled and ran a hand through his hair, "or if I'd have fallen off that roof with him."

Brennan shuddered and pressed her fingers to her lips as images from the dream, which she kept having. She didn't know why she kept having the dream. Sweets had survived, but in her dream, he didn't, and, in essence, she was being forced to watch him die night after night. It was a kind of torture.

"I keep thinking about it, running all of the possible scenarios through my mind. In one of them," Sweets stopped speaking, looked away and cleared his throat before looking at her once more. "In one of them, I get up on that ledge with Mr. Goodman and…"

"You fall," Brennan interrupted. She sat on the edge of Sweets' bed and grabbed his hand, ignoring the confused look that Sweets shot in her direction.

"In one of them, you attempt to talk Mr. Goodman down, but…I don't know, maybe there's a slight wind, or maybe you grapple with the gun, and then you just…fall," Brennan tried to say it matter-of-factly, but her breath hitched, and she had to take a deep breath.

"I know," Brennan said, and she clutched Sweets' hand tightly, hoping that he would understand.

"I know because I've been dreaming about it since before Mr. Goodman," Brennan confessed. "For two weeks before that day, I dreamt of you clinging to the side of a building, and then you'd slip, and you'd fall, and you'd die."

Brennan closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she saw Sweets watching her with a familiar look of concern and compassion. For some reason, even though she was used to seeing such looks from the psychologist, it made her feel like crying.

Taking a shaky breath, she continued, "And, even though that isn't what happened, the dream keeps coming, and I wake up trying to keep it from happening again."

Sweets drew her into a half hug. It was clumsy and Brennan accidentally elbowed Sweets in the groin. His sharp intake of breath was a reaction that made her smile. She knew what the doctors had said, but it was good to have tangible proof that the psychologist had a fully functional groin.

Brennan made to move away, to give Sweets some space, but he held onto her, his nose pressed against her hair.

"Thank you for sharing that with me," he said, lying back. "I'm sure that this," he gestured toward the lower half of his body, "hasn't been easy on you and Booth. I'm sorry that I made you my medical surrogates; I meant to talk to you about it, but…"

"What? I just told you that I've been dreaming about you plummeting to your death for weeks before it almost happened, and all you can do is apologize for getting shot before you could tell Booth and I that you'd named us as your medical proxies?" Brennan smacked him on the back of his head and shifted her weight on the bed so that she could look him in the eye.

"Ouch!" Sweets scowled at her and rubbed at the back of his head. "That really hurt."

Brennan didn't know what overcame her as she gave into the illogical impulse to laugh, and she smacked the back of Sweets' head again. The look he gave her just made her laugh all the harder, and soon, he was laughing with her, tears streaming down his face.

That's how Booth walked in on them – both of them doubled over with laughter, snot coming from their noses, and eyes red-rimmed. He'd brought Christine with him, and both of them watched the two of them, Booth whispering something to their daughter that Brennan couldn't hear. Whatever it was had Christine clapping and giggling right along with them.

When the laughter subsided, Sweets looked a little more like his old self. Young, though no longer carefree, he had some color back in his cheeks and no longer looked as though he was a non-participant in his own life. Brennan wasn't sure if the psychologist had turned the proverbial corner in his personal recovery, or not, but she felt as though a great weight had been lifted off of her shoulders. She knew that, tonight, she wouldn't dream about Dr. Sweets falling off of the top of the FBI building to his death. No, tonight, she'd dream about something else, or maybe her sleep would be dream free.

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Please review; thanks


	7. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: **See initial chapter; bibliography follows (sorry that the links don't show up; if you want the link, let me know and I'll send it in a PM).

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Epilogue

Booth strode purposefully down the hallway, their little girl in his arms, giggling and talking about something that Brennan couldn't hear. They'd picked her up for their appointment with Dr. Sweets. Though, really, it was just an excuse to visit the younger man now that he was back at work, and they'd brought Christine because she missed spending the day with her, Uncle Sweets.

Brennan followed the pair at a far more subdued pace, trying not to recall the last time she and Booth had made the trek down to Sweets' office and the life changing events that had followed. Sweets had almost died, quite literally in her arms. She shuddered as she followed after Booth, her mind replaying the last nine months of their lives.

Initially, Sweets had been reticent to accept the invitation that Booth and she had extended for him to live in their home until he was able to live on his own, until the doctors had given him an ultimatum that it was either their place or an assisted living facility. He'd conceded under protest, which Brennan had taken as a good thing, because it was better than the quiet acceptance that he'd sometimes displayed during the two and a half months he'd spent at the hospital.

It had been difficult for all of them at first, but, once boundaries had been set and routines established, they'd become a kind of family unit. The hardest thing for Brennan to remember was that Sweets didn't always need her help, and that it was okay for him to struggle with something – she didn't need to step or intervene as often as she wanted to. It was hard for her to watch him struggle to do some of the simplest things – things he'd been able to do before he was shot.

Sweets' ups and downs were hardest for the young psychologist to deal with, and, unsurprisingly (at least to her), Booth had been the most helpful with aiding Sweets in making it through his bouts of anger, depression and lethargy. He kept the younger man active, both in body and in mind.

And then there was Christine. Her little girl. She'd been instrumental in helping to break Sweets out of his depressive funk. Interacting with her seemed to help Sweets in ways that Booth and she couldn't seem to reach him. It was like one of those miracles that Brennan had heard Booth and others talk about, except it was one that she could see, and vouch for. Her daughter had worked a real miracle.

The little girl squealed and clapped her hands when she saw Sweets, and Booth relinquished her to the equally ecstatic psychologist. Brennan watched Sweets as he played with Christine, wheeling the little girl around the obstacles of coffee table and couches etc., pretending to be a train. Sweets and Christine seemed to be in their own little world, unaware of her and Booth as they choo-chooed their way through Sweets' office, giggling and mimicking the sounds of a turn of the century steam engine.

Sweets had come a long way in the past six months since he'd been living with them – he was less despondent, was a pro at getting in and out of his wheelchair on his own, and had returned to work. Though he was just working half-days, it seemed to be an ego boost for him.

She and Booth and Christine had come a long way too.

They were a family, one that Brennan had never envisioned having. There were still some days where she wondered what would have happened had she not had that terrible, sleep-stealing dream, and worried that the dream was somehow to blame for Sweets losing his ability to walk.

But, then there were days like this, where she was grateful for the dream, and that she'd acted on it. Without the dream warning her, she, and Booth and Christine, would have lost Sweets. And, the fact that they would have lost something they'd never actually had before any of this didn't make the thought any less sobering or real to her.

"Hey, Dr. Brennan, Agent Booth," Sweets' voice jarred her from her reverie, and she blinked back tears that she didn't realize were there.

"Thank you," his voice sounded like he had a cold, but Brennan knew that he was more than likely staving off tears, as she was. "Thank you for this."

"You don't have to thank us, Sweets," Booth said. There was a look on his face that Brennan had a hard time reading, but she knew that Sweets understood it. He always did.

"Yeah, Sweets," Brennan said, and she cleared her throat when it sounded like she too had a head cold. "We're family, and you don't have to thank family."

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Works Cited

Eckerle, Jeff. "Redemption." _Law & Order: SVU_. Dir. Ted Kotcheff. NBCUniversal Media, LLC. NBC, New York, New York, 2 Nov. 2001. Television.

Hanson, Hart, Stephen Nathan, Ian Toynton, and Barry Josephson, prods. _Bones_. Far Field Productions and Josephson Entertainment in Association with 20th Century Fox Television. FOX, n.d. Television.

Hubbard, James, MD, M.P.H. "How to Treat 4 Types of Gunshot Wounds (From One Shot?)." _The Survival Doctor_. Hubbard Publishing, LLC, 26 July 2012. Web. 26 Apr. 2013.

Skorucak, Anton, MS. " ." . Science , n.d. Web. 26 Apr. 2013.

"Spinal Cord Injuries." _SCI Injuries_. , n.d. Web. 26 Apr. 2013.


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